There are wounds Gotham leaves behind that even the Bat can't outrun.
Not in the silence.
Not in the shadows.
Not even in exile.
Once, there was a love - sharp as a thief's smile, fragile as a whispered name.
It was never safe. It was never simple.
But it was real.
And then it was gone.
No crime scene. No blood. Just absence.
The kind that rots slowly. Quietly.
Until the heart forgets how to beat without grief beside it.
Now, across a continent and years too late, something lost begins to resurface -
a secret buried in dust,
a bond broken not by death,
but by choice.
And when the past knocks, it doesn't ask permission. It kicks the door down.
-------------------------------------------
Hello! I am the creator of this fanfic, this will be the masterlist with all the chapters I have written. This is just to help you guys not lose track of any of them. It will be updated every Friday-Sunday. I will update late sometimes since I'm in college and I need to study.
I hope this helps you guys keep track of this fanfic that is still being written. Thank you so much for reading <3
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Is it okay for my boss to tell me that "you're an embarrassment to me because I have to keep correcting you in front of people. People take time to make these products and you don't know anything. I'm gonna have you clock out." MIND YOU, this is only my 4th shift and I work 2 days a week. I'm also a Cosmetology student.
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Chapter 7 Too Soon to Call It Anything...
----------------------------------------------------
Location: Selina's Apt. Time: 9:30AM
Date: February 22nd, 2003|P.O.V.: Selina (3rd Person)
----------------------------------------------------
Gotham had an odd start that morning.
The birds chirped - rare for a city like this. The sun stretched across the skyline, soft and deceptive, as if Lady Gotham herself had cast a veil of happiness over it all. Snow melted just enough to glisten along the streets. No fog lingered in the alleys, no shadows thick enough for criminals to slip through on their way back to whatever holes they crawled out of.
By six in the morning, Gotham was…quiet.
Too quiet.
It felt like a spring morning in Metropolis.
A siren wailed in the distance now and then, but not nearly as often as it should have. Not for this city. Not for Gotham.
It was a beautiful lie.
The kind Lady Gotham told just before something worse crawled up from beneath her streets.
Civilians moved through it without question. Some walked their dogs calmly along slushy sidewalks. Others clutched cups of hot chocolate, breath fogging faintly in the crisp air. A few stumbled their way home from a night of sin - disheveled, dazed, but still moving.
No one noticed the difference.
Or maybe they chose not to.
Even the noise had softened. The usual chaos didn’t bleed through the walls of Selina’s apartment. The sunlight pressed gently against her blinds, not harsh enough to force its way in. Traffic moved slower, lighter than the restless night before.
Gotham was holding its breath.
Selina stirred awake slowly, her body still carrying that faint, lingering soreness from two nights ago. The rest of it came from sleeping too deeply - grogginess clinging to her limbs, a heavy inertia that made even sitting up feel like work.
She let out a small, strained sound as she pushed herself upright, stretching her arms over her head.
“Worst and best sleep I’ve had…” she muttered through a yawn, voice rough and low.
She glanced around the room, slow and deliberate - just like a cat surveying its surroundings.
Birds chirping?
That alone was enough to make her pause.
Well… that’s rare.
Selina’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Something’s definitely brewing,” she muttered as she swung her legs off the bed. “And it’s not gonna be pretty.”
----------------------------------------------------
Location: Wayne Manor Time: 1:48PM
Date: February 21st, 2003|P.O.V.: Jason (3rd Person)
----------------------------------------------------
Jason didn’t leave.
Of course he didn’t.
He made it halfway down the hall before stopping, glancing back toward Bruce’s office. The door hadn’t shut all the way. Just enough of a gap to let voices slip through.
Good enough.
He hovered there for a second, then shifted quietly closer, pressing himself against the wall like he’d done a hundred times before on patrol.
Inside, the room was quieter than he expected.
No yelling.
That was worse.
“…Blüdhaven treating you well?” Bruce’s voice carried first. Calm. Too calm.
Dick let out a small breath - almost a laugh, but not really. “It’s fine. Different.”
A pause.
Jason leaned in just a little more.
“I’m managing.”
Bruce didn’t respond right away. Jason could practically feel the look he was giving him. That same one. The one that made you feel like you were being measured and found lacking all at once.
“You didn’t come here to discuss Blüdhaven,” Bruce said finally.
Straight to it.
Jason smirked faintly. Yeah… that sounds about right.
Another pause. Longer this time.
“…I came to check in,” Dick said. Lighter. Careful. “See how things are.”
Jason’s grip tightened slightly against the doorframe.
Things.
Bruce exhaled slowly. “We’re fine.”
Short. Clean. Final.
Jason rolled his eyes silently. Sure we are.
Inside, Dick shifted—Jason could hear it in the floorboards.
“Yeah?” Dick said, softer now. “Because from what I just saw, he’s still running headfirst into walls.”
Jason’s jaw tightened.
Oh, so now he’s watching?
Bruce didn’t rise to it immediately.
“He’s improving,” Bruce said.
Not praise. Not really.
Just… acknowledgment.
Jason didn’t know if that made it better or worse.
Dick didn’t sound convinced. “He’s a kid, Bruce.”
The word hung in the air.
Jason stilled.
Bruce’s voice came back, lower this time. Sharper. “He’s Robin.”
There it was.
Not a kid. Not Jason.
Robin.
Jason’s stomach twisted, something tight and familiar settling in his chest.
Dick didn’t back down. Of course he didn’t.
“He’s both,” Dick said. “You don’t get to pick which one’s convenient.”
Silence.
The kind that pressed.
Jason swallowed, shifting his weight, suddenly aware of how quiet the hallway had gotten.
Inside, Bruce spoke again.
Measured. Controlled.
“You’re not here to tell me how to run things.”
Dick let out a quiet breath. Not angry. Just… tired.
“No,” he said. “I’m here because I know how this goes.”
Jason’s brow furrowed.
That… sounded different.
Bruce didn’t answer.
For a second, Jason thought that was it. That the conversation would just die there like everything else in this house.
Then Dick spoke again, quieter this time.
“Just… don’t lose him, Bruce.”
Jason froze.
Something about the way he said it—like it already almost happened -sent a strange chill down his spine.
Inside, Bruce didn’t respond.
Not right away.
When he did, his voice was steady. Solid.
“I won’t.”
Jason let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
Yeah.
Of course he wouldn’t.
Bruce doesn’t lose.
Jason pushed himself off the wall, rolling his shoulders like he hadn’t just heard something he probably wasn’t supposed to.
“Yeah…” he muttered under his breath as he walked off.
“Of course you won’t.”
----------------------------------------------------
Location: Wayne Manor Time: 2:00PM
Date: February 21st, 2003|P.O.V.: Alfred (3rd Person)
----------------------------------------------------
Alfred carried on with his duties as if the manor were perfectly at peace.
It wasn’t.
It never was.
The soft clink of porcelain echoed through the kitchen as he set a teacup onto its saucer with practiced precision. The kettle hissed quietly on the stove, steam curling into the air like a whisper.
Upstairs, voices carried faintly through the house.
Muffled. Controlled.
Tense.
Alfred did not look up.
He simply reached for the teapot, pouring with steady hands as if the conversation above did not exist.
But he heard it.
Every shift in tone. Every pause that lingered just a second too long.
Master Dick had returned.
That, in itself, explained the change in the house’s atmosphere.
He set the teapot down gently, adjusting the placement of the tray by a fraction of an inch.
Master Bruce would not raise his voice. He never did.
Which meant the conversation would be far more dangerous than if he had.
Alfred exhaled softly through his nose.
And Master Jason…
A slight pause.
Alfred’s gaze flicked, briefly, toward the staircase.
The boy was not nearly as subtle as he believed himself to be.
A faint, almost imperceptible shake of the head followed.
“Eavesdropping again,” Alfred murmured under his breath, not unkindly.
Selina stood at the kitchen counter, eyes narrowing slightly as the sunlight pushed through her apartment.
“Jeez… why is the sun so bright?” she muttered, squinting.
A small smirk tugged at her lips. “This is probably what bats feel like when sunlight hits his manor.”
A quiet, amused huff escaped her. “Heh…”
She poured instant coffee into the machine with little care, letting it do the rest of the work.
Crossing the small space, she reached for the remote on her dining table and flicked the television on without much thought.
It landed exactly where she expected.
Gotham News.
“Good morning, Gotham,” the weather forecaster said as the camera panned over to him.
“Today, we’ve got sunlight—woohoo!” he added with a grin. “February’s usually the dead of winter for us, but it looks like the city’s finally getting a little break. Some of that snow’s even starting to melt.”
He pointed off-screen at a graphic. “If you’re driving or walking, though, remember to watch out for black ice. Can’t exactly get compensation for that—”
A few quiet laughs came from the studio.
The forecaster chuckled along before continuing. “Don’t let the sunshine fool you. Temperatures are still dropping tonight, around twenty-five degrees.”
He leaned slightly closer to the camera, tone shifting just a bit.
“And if you’re planning on heading out later…bundle up. Because right now, it’s looking like we could be heading straight into a blizzard.”
Selina scoffed under her breath.
“Great…”
“Meooowwww.”
“Meow.”
“Meow.”
Her cats gathered around her legs, weaving between her ankles, pressing close with soft insistence.
Selina huffed out a quiet breath, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. She crouched down, scooping one of them up with practiced ease.
“Morning, my loves…” she murmured, her voice softer now, almost fond.
The cat in her arms nudged against her chin, and she let out a faint, tired smile.
“I know, I know… you’re starving,” she said, holding it gently, face to face. “Give me a minute, okay?”
------------Selina's P.O.V. First person ------------
I set my kitty down and immediately get to making their food, the TV still murmuring in the background.
“You guys come first. I come second,” I mutter, already moving faster for them than I would for myself.
They circle my legs like I’m about to disappear if they don’t keep me pinned in place.
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” I add, grabbing their bowls. “You’d think I starve you.”
I don’t.
Not them.
I fill their dishes, setting them down one by one, watching as they dive in without hesitation. No second thoughts. No overthinking. Just instinct.
Must be nice.
I lean against the counter for a second, arms folding loosely as I watch them eat, the sound of the news still droning behind me.
“I should really go to work…” I mutter as I step into the bathroom, already knowing I won’t.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and grimace slightly.
“God… I’m gross,” I huff under my breath. “All I’ve done is sleep.”
I shake my head, pushing the thought aside as I start getting ready for a shower, letting the routine take over for once.
I take a few small steps toward the shower, pausing to twist the handle.
The pipes groan before the water kicks on, a steady stream turning hot. Steam starts to curl up almost immediately, fogging the mirror behind me.
I stand there for a second, letting it run, letting the heat build.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
“Yeah… this isn’t right,” I mutter, more to myself than anything, eyes flicking toward the bathroom door like I expect the city to answer back.
I step in anyway.
----------------------------------------------------
Location: Gothams Alleyways. Time: 1:00 AM
Date: February 23rd, 2003|P.O.V.: Bruce (1st Person)
----------------------------------------------------
The alley smells like rot and wet concrete.
It always does.
Rainwater pools along the cracks, reflecting broken neon from the street above. Footsteps echo - too loud, too careless.
Three of them.
Armed.
Untrained.
I drop behind them before they hear me.
The first goes down fast - elbow to the throat, his air cut off before he can even shout. I pivot, disarm the second, the knife clattering uselessly against the pavement.
The third swings wide. Sloppy. Predictable.
I catch his wrist. Twist.
Bone snaps.
He screams.
Too loud.
I tighten my grip, forcing him to the ground. “Stay down.”
He does.
For now.
Behind me- movement. Faster. Lighter.
Too fast.
“Robin—”
Too late.
Jason crashes into the fight like a spark hitting gasoline. No hesitation. No patience.
He goes straight for the man with the broken arm, driving him back into the brick wall with more force than necessary.
“Stay down!” Jason snaps, voice sharp, angry.
The man’s already down.
Jason hits him again.
I step in, catching his arm mid-swing.
“That’s enough.”
He jerks against my grip. “He was reaching—”
“He wasn’t.”
Jason’s breathing hard. Too hard. His shoulders tight, jaw locked.
He’s not looking at them anymore.
He’s looking at me.
Defiant.
Waiting.
I release him slowly.
“Control,” I say.
One word.
It lands heavier than a strike.
Jason scoffs, ripping his arm back. “Yeah, I had it under control.”
He didn’t.
We both know it.
Sirens in the distance. Closer.
I move, binding the criminals quickly, efficient. No wasted motion.
Jason paces behind me, restless.
“You always do that,” he mutters.
I don’t look up. “Do what.”
“Step in like I can’t handle it.”
I finish securing the last one before answering.
“You couldn’t.”
Silence.
Sharp. Immediate.
I stand, turning to face him fully.
His posture’s off. Slouched. Guarded. Like he’s bracing for something I haven’t said yet.
Or something I have.
“You rely on anger,” I continue. “It makes you predictable.”
His eyes flash. “It makes me effective.”
“No,” I correct, voice even. “It makes you reckless.”
He laughs under his breath. No humor in it. “Right. Because holding back works so well in this city.”
He gestures around us - at the alley, the bodies, the filth.
“At least I’m doing something.”
The words hang there.
I don’t respond immediately.
Because that’s the truth he believes.
And the one that will get him killed.
Sirens grow louder.
I turn away. “We’re done here.”
Jason doesn’t move.
Not right away.
Then—
He follows.
But slower.
A step behind.
Not because he can’t keep up.
Because he doesn’t want to.
----------------------------------------------------
Location: IceBurg Lounge Time: 1:25 AM
Date: February 23rd, 2003|P.O.V.: ??? (1st Person)
----------------------------------------------------
The sound of footsteps echoed across the metal floor of my lounge.
Light. Precise. Familiar.
I didn’t need to look up.
I already knew who they belonged to.
Cat.
A slow breath left me as I leaned back slightly, the corner of my mouth twitching into something close to a smirk.
“Selina…” I said, voice low, dry. “Long time no see.”
A quiet chuckle followed. No humor in it.
“Thought you got dragged to the grave…” I added, eyes finally lifting toward her.
“…or skipped town again.”
“Very funny,” she said flatly, unfazed.
A beat.
“I’ve got nine lives.”
She set the tray down in front of me like it weighed nothing.
“Don’t choke on it,” she said flatly.
“Don’t go getting yourself knocked up by Bats,” I muttered.
Selina stopped mid-step.
I let out a low chuckle. “Did I strike a nerve, Cat?”
I barely had time to blink.
She was on me—fist twisted into my collar, dragging me forward just enough to make a point.
“Don’t you dare put that on my name,” she snapped, voice low, dangerous.
“I know your game, Cat,” I muttered, voice low. “I’m not stupid.”
A slight pause.
“You never can tell with you.”
She let go.
Didn’t apologize. Didn’t need to.
I adjusted my collar slowly, eyes never leaving her.
Yeah… something was different.
-----------------------------------------------------
I hope you guys are enjoying this story as much as I am, I cant wait for it progress cause we're almost getting there.
The streets below were already turning restless. Traffic thickened, engines idling, horns cutting through the night as people drifted home or dragged themselves toward another shift. Voices rose and fell, spilling into the brick walls of Selina’s apartment, seeping through like the city itself refused to stay outside.
Gotham never slept. It only changed tempo.
Selina heard it all, even in sleep. She wasn’t a heavy sleeper - couldn’t afford to be. Not in a city like this. The kind of place that punished anyone who let their guard down for too long.
But tonight… something was off.
The noise built slowly, like it had been waiting for her to loosen her grip just a little. Like she’d let herself relax more than she should have.
A sharp honk split the air.
Selina jolted awake with a gasp, the sudden movement sending a few of her cats scattering from the bed. She blinked hard, dragging a hand across her face.
“What time is it…” she muttered, her voice rough with sleep.
The faint blue gloom leaking through her window gave her the answer before she even checked a clock. Still night. Still Gotham.
“Already…” she scoffed under her breath, sinking deeper into the mattress. “Gotta get up soon… go work for that penguin…”
Her lip curled slightly. “Don’t feel like it.”
She grabbed her pillow and curled in on herself, pulling the blanket tighter as if she could buy a few more minutes of peace before the city claimed her again.
“Not going…” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper as she sank deeper into the mattress, burying her face into the pillow.
The soreness hadn’t faded - it lingered in her muscles, a quiet reminder she couldn’t shake. She shifted, wincing faintly, but refused to move any further.
For a moment, she let herself stay there. Still. Warm. Hidden.
Voices overlapped in measured tones, percentages, projections, expansion into Blüdhaven markets. A man to Bruce’s left spoke at length about quarterly returns, his voice polished, practiced.
Bruce Wayne sat at the head of the table, Gotham Gazette replaced by financial reports, eyes fixed forward.
He hadn’t turned the page in several minutes.
“- and if we reallocate the R&D budget-”
The words blurred.
Not gone. Never gone. Bruce didn’t miss information...he absorbed it, cataloged it - but it all moved to the background, pushed aside by something far less controllable.
A memory.
Not the act itself - Bruce didn’t linger there. He never allowed himself to.
But the feeling remained.
The intensity. The way Selina had fought him even in closeness- refusing, resisting, holding onto control like it was the only thing she had left.
And the moment it slipped.
His jaw tightened slightly.
“Mr. Wayne?”
Bruce didn’t respond.
He could still hear her voice - strained, breaking around his name. Not weak. Never weak. Just… unguarded. For a second.
Rare.
Dangerous.
“…Bruce.”
That got him.
His eyes flicked up, sharp again, the mask sliding back into place instantly. “Continue,” he said, voice even, controlled.
The speaker nodded, continuing without hesitation.
Bruce leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
Another thought surfaced—uninvited this time.
Stay for the night.
He hadn’t planned to say it.
Bruce Wayne didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.
But he had.
And she stayed.
That was the part that lingered. Not the night itself. Not the closeness.
The choice.
Selina Kyle choosing to remain - even briefly - inside something she never allowed herself to belong to.
Across the table, someone asked a question. Numbers. Logistics.
Bruce answered without pause. Precise. Correct.
But his mind had already moved somewhere else.
Back to the quiet after.
Back to the way the city had stilled, as if Gotham itself had been watching.
Back to the absence he hadn’t acknowledged yet.
She would be gone so soon.
Of course she would.
Selina Kyle didn’t stay.
Bruce’s expression didn’t change. Not a flicker. Not a crack.
But his grip on the edge of the report tightened just enough to crease the paper.
Later that night, fog bled through the city, settling over the thick blanket of snow that smothered Gotham’s streets.
It didn’t stop anyone. It never did.
Especially not tonight.
The Iceberg Lounge pulsed with life, packed wall to wall with weekend crowds - drawn in by the promise of excess, distraction… and the quiet celebration of Gotham’s so-called prince.
Inside, the air was thick with heat, smoke, and desperation. Bodies moved to the music in uneven rhythms. Some laughed too loudly, others stumbled, collapsing into corners or each other.
A man doubled over near the bar, vomiting what little he had left. Across the room, another lay sprawled on the floor, unmoving - another victim of the new drug making its rounds through the city.
Drops.
The name alone had people hooked.
Ever since the flood - since The Riddler tore Gotham open and let the water swallow it whole - things had changed. The old order had cracked.
Carmine Falcone was gone. His empire with him.
And now… something else was creeping in to fill the space.
Something quieter. More patient.
No one in the lounge knew it yet.
They didn’t care to.
They were too busy living in the moment - dancing, drinking, chasing whatever high would make them forget the city they were drowning in.
Deeper inside the lounge - past the noise, past the sweat and smoke—was another world entirely.
A club within a club.
This one was filled to the brim with Gotham’s elite. Money. Power. Control. All packed into velvet booths and dim light.
And every single one of them was hooked.
Drops flowed as freely as the alcohol. Laughter came easier, louder, sloppier. They didn’t just use it - they loved it.
Tonight, they celebrated.
“The kid’s too clean for this,” one man scoffed, swirling his drink. “He ain’t ever touched a damn drug in his life.”
A ripple of laughter followed, sharp and careless.
They were talking about Bruce Wayne.
A server passed through the crowd, balancing a tray of drinks and small plates, her smile practiced and hollow.
“You’re right, sir,” she said with a soft, rehearsed laugh - just enough to earn her tip.
She moved on, weaving through bodies until she reached a table set slightly apart from the rest.
A man sat there - well known, well feared.
The room bent around him without meaning to.
“Thanks, doll,” he muttered as she set the tray down.
He didn’t look at her right away. His attention lingered elsewhere, eyes scanning the room with quiet calculation.
“You know if that cat’s coming in tonight?” he asked, voice low, almost casual.
The server hesitated only a fraction before answering. “No, sir. Haven’t heard from her. No one has.”
A beat of silence.
His jaw tightened just slightly.
“...Dang cat isn’t coming in tonight,” he muttered under his breath, the words carrying more irritation than they should have.
Hi my loves, I know it's been MONTHS since I've written for this story. I've just been very busy with life, school, and so much more. Just a bunch of unfortunate series of events but I am doing so much more better to keep on writing for this story.
I do appreciate your patience. I love you all. XOXO
Enjoy this new chapter <3
DISCLAIMER: I OWN NONE OF THE CHARACTERS WITHIN THIS STORY, ALL OWNERSHIP OF SUCH CHARACTERS BELONG TO DC COMICS.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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This bit kinda kills me because what do you MEAN he paid for cereal at a diner??? Does he not have cereal at home??? Is this a special little treat for him???
Selina groaned softly as she shifted beneath the sheets. Her eyes blinked open, adjusting to the stillness of Bruce’s bedroom. The only light came from the digital clock on his nightstand, its red glow casting faint shapes across the wood-paneled walls. It was just enough to outline the room’s heavy furniture and the edge of the Persian rug beneath the bed.
“Mmph,” she exhaled, tired, aching, every muscle reminding her of the night before.
He really did a number on me, she thought, lips twitching at her own admission.
Her gaze slid toward the clock.
4:00 A.M. - dawn’s edge.
Outside, Gotham was cold. The kind of cold that clung to the lungs and made the ocean breeze feel like knives. The city was alive enough for shadows, but not yet awake for men.
Carefully, she swung her legs out of bed, her feet sinking into the rug’s thick weave. Her back arched, vertebrae popping in a sharp crack. She froze, eyes flicking back toward Bruce.
He didn’t stir.
“He’s sleeping well…” she whispered, a smile tugging faintly at her lips. The sound of it startled even her - a softness she rarely allowed.
The mattress exhaled as she rose fully, erasing the weight and warmth she’d left behind. Selina moved with deliberate grace, crossing the room to the door. Bruce’s robe hung where she remembered, and she slipped it on without hesitation, its fabric brushing against bare skin like stolen armor.
With one last glance at him - the Bat, still in rare peace - she turned. Silent as smoke, she made her way back toward the study, ready to gather the trail of clothes and chaos they’d left behind.
Alfred was always the first to rise. By 4 a.m. sharp he was awake, dressed, and ready to begin the day. It wasn’t a requirement of butlering - not in the slightest - but the discipline had been etched into him long ago, drilled into bone and blood during his military years. Habits like that don’t fade; they linger, sharpening a man even as age wears him down.
He stepped out of his bedroom, just a few strides from the kitchen. Six measured steps carried him into the heart of Wayne Manor’s service wing, his movements quiet and deliberate, a ghost of routine. The kitchen greeted him with its familiar silence.
A soft yawn escaped - the only indulgence he allowed himself - stifled so as not to disturb Bruce. Not that it would have mattered. The young man had trained his body to rouse at precisely 5 a.m., every day without fail… though Alfred had witnessed the rare mornings where even the Dark Knight resisted the call.
“Slow morning,” he muttered under his breath as he rolled back his sleeves, reaching for the silverware. The cloth worked over the polished surface with mechanical precision, every motion a ritual. By 4:15, the silver was already catching the faintest glint of pre-dawn light through the high windows. Gotham outside was still asleep, but Wayne Manor - as always - was already alive in his hands.
As Selina slipped through the halls of Wayne Manor, the sound of soft snoring drifted faintly from one of the rooms above, paired with the quiet clatter of utensils from downstairs.
“Alfred’s awake…” she muttered under her breath, adjusting her steps to move with deliberate silence. She knew better than to underestimate the creaks of this old house - or the possibility of stumbling across something left behind by a certain teenage boy.
The study greeted her like a crime scene of last night’s indulgence, her clothing scattered in careless trails across the floor. She began gathering the pieces quickly, slipping back into the gown she had worn the night before. The thought of returning home in such attire would’ve embarrassed her once, but urgency outweighed pride now. She had to be gone before Bruce woke.
As she tugged at her dress, her heel caught the hem, sending her stumbling with a soft squeak. “Shit…” she hissed, freezing in place.
The snoring above ceased for a beat. Her heart lurched. Then it returned, louder this time - like thunder rolling through the manor’s ancient walls. Alfred’s clattering below had stilled too, replaced by the faint rhythm of a man setting a table.
Selina let out a small, shaky breath. “Thought I woke someone up…” she whispered, smirking at herself.
She slipped into the rest of her clothes with quick precision, smoothing the fabric over her body as if to erase any sign of the night before. The only thing she would leave behind in Bruce Wayne’s study was the faint, haunting trace of her perfume.
Jason, worn down by the Gala and the long night in the east wing parlor, was now sprawled out on the couch, snoring. His belly was out, his dress shirt unbuttoned and wrinkled, stained with grease from the slice of pizza that had slipped out of his hand. The PS2 controller had clattered to the floor hours ago with a loud plastic clang, now lying abandoned in a haze of Dorito dust.
The TV still glowed, frozen on the Final Fantasy character idling on screen - untouched since maybe 2 a.m.
Jason let out another earth-rattling snore, loud enough for the ghosts of the Waynes to hear from their graves. Between snores, he mumbled half-coherent words - “uh-huh” - and scratched lazily at his stomach.
The parlor was a battlefield of teenage indulgence: two empty pizza boxes on the coffee table - one picked clean, the other cold and half - eaten. A one-liter Mountain Dew, half-drunk, leaned dangerously on the edge. A bag of Doritos lay open and forgotten, the chips inside going stale by the minute. His tie was tossed into a corner. And, worst of all by Bruce’s standards, Jason’s feet rested squarely on the coffee table - a habit guaranteed to earn a glare.
For once, he wasn’t Robin. He wasn’t Gotham’s weapon or Bruce Wayne’s ward. He was just a worn-out kid, collapsing under the weight of society’s expectations, finding solace in bad food, video games, and the rare chance to be normal.
Selina slipped out of the study as quietly as she could. The gown wasn’t making it easy - layers of tulle whispered with every movement - but nothing was impossible for Gotham’s infamous cat burglar.
Her heels dangled from one hand while the other gathered up the fabric, lifting it just high enough to keep her steps ghostlike. It felt almost like a heist, only this time the prize was her own escape. All she had to do was make it out of Wayne Manor and run for the hills. Nothing new.
She passed several rooms in silence until she slowed near the parlor. The glow of the television bled into the hall, painting the doorway in pale blue. A video game droned on inside, the same eight-note loop repeating endlessly. Then came the sound - a sudden, thunderous snore that rattled louder than the music itself.
Jason.
Selina smirked and shook her head, muttering under her breath, “Jeez, kid, could you get any louder?” A soft laugh escaped before she caught it.
She didn’t need to peek in. She already knew the scene waiting inside: controller abandoned on the floor, pizza boxes and soda bottles scattered like evidence, Jason sprawled belly-up without a care in the world. Typical teenage boy.
Shifting her gown higher, she kept her soft-footed stride and moved past the parlor, down the staircase. Each step was deliberate, smooth, and silent - just another successful getaway.
Alfred could hear faint footsteps in the hall above him. Not heavy and deliberate like Master Bruce’s. Not the sloppy, uneven scuff of young Jason. No - these were light, careful, deliberate. Selina. He knew her walk by now. She had stayed before, and he had little doubt this would not be the last time.
He did not stop what he was doing. Instead, he continued at his steady pace in the kitchen, arranging silverware with precision. Experience told him what the sound of her leaving meant: only two plates would be needed for breakfast this morning.
The aroma of eggs, coffee, and toasted bread rose steadily, warm and grounding against the chill hour. A faint door latch clicked in the distance. The footsteps receded, and with the near-silent sweep of the front door closing, the manor was still again.
Alfred exhaled slowly, alone with the clatter of utensils and the simmering of the pan.
Selina descended the steps of the manor and followed the long path toward the entrance gates, taking the “normal” way out for once. Her body ached with every movement. Running rooftops was out of the question tonight. Bruce had pushed harder than usual, and while she prided herself on her stamina, she could barely get back on her feet afterward.
There’d be no prowling for the next few nights. Not even the Iceberg Lounge would catch sight of her silhouette.
“Ow…” she muttered, wincing as she favored one leg.
“Stupid Bruce…” The words hissed past her teeth, fogging in the February air.
She hated how sore she felt, hated the reminder that her body could betray her like this. Today wasn’t a day for heists, or even slipping into a hole-in-the-wall diner for a greasy breakfast. Today was a day for hiding under covers and waiting for the pain to fade.
A gust of winter air swept past her, sharp as glass. Gotham was still deep in its frozen season, snow falling heavy as it had since December, the cold settling into her bones. She tightened Bruce’s robe around her as she moved forward. She could make it a few blocks, but she knew eventually she’d need to flag a cab.
Lifting the hem of her gown, she tried to keep it clear of the snow. Heels weren’t a challenge on their own, but a floor-length gown dragging through slush made the walk awkward, like she was trying to stride with a cat wrapped around her legs.
“God, I probably look ridiculous right now,” she muttered aloud, shaking her head with a crooked smile as she kept moving through Gotham’s frozen streets.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred called, rapping lightly on the bedroom door. Silence. Not even a grunt from the stone of a man within. With a resigned breath, Alfred let himself in.
“You’ve an entire day ahead of you, sir. You can’t simply lie about like a bump on a log,” he said, crossing the room with practiced steps. “I’ll give you to the count of three. One… two… three.”
He yanked the curtains open, flooding the room with cold blue light. The winter morning shone like ice against the Persian rug and the carved wood.
Bruce groaned, rolling onto his side with his back to Alfred.
“Master Bruce, sulking will not change a thing. Wayne Enterprises does not pause for men who bury themselves under blankets.”
Another groan. Bruce curled tighter, his voice muffled. “On… my… way…”
Alfred sighed, long-suffering but not without fondness. “Up, up, let’s go,” he said, briskly tugging the covers away.
“For a man of thirty, you manage to behave like a boy of fifteen,” he muttered, shaking his head as he set about straightening the room.
Bruce mumbled something incoherent, the sound lost against the pillow. Alfred leaned in, arching a brow.
“Master Wayne, I don’t speak in riddles before sunrise. You’ll have to try again,” he said crisply. “It’s nearly five-forty. Your breakfast is prepared, and I hardly think you’d prefer it cold. Would you like to eat a cold breakfast today, sir?”
A muffled, groggy “...no” came from the lump beneath the sheets.
“I thought not.” Alfred straightened, smoothing down his sleeves as if the matter were settled. “Then I suggest you rise before I’m forced to bring the tray here, and you drip yolk across those Egyptian linens you insisted on importing. Up, sir.”
With that, Alfred gave the curtains another sharp tug and stepped back toward the door, waiting with the patience of a man who had raised Bruce Wayne long enough to know exactly how this battle would end.
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Time: 5:55AM P.O.V.: Jason (Third Person)
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Jason woke with a sharp gasp, as if the world itself had offended him. “What day is it? What time - ” His words trailed as he looked down.
A cold slice of pizza clung to his stomach. His white button-up from the gala was stained orange with grease, a sight that would definitely earn him one of Bruce’s glares. Dorito dust coated his fingers, evidence of the open bag on the coffee table. Two pizza boxes sat nearby - one licked clean, the other half-eaten.
The television still glowed, Final Fantasy frozen on Cloud idling in place, the soundtrack looping the same hollow notes over and over.
“Oh, shit…” Jason muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face. A jaw-cracking yawn tore free, loud enough to wake the ghosts of the manor’s abandoned wings - the same wings only Alfred ever braved.
He pushed himself upright with a strangled groan. “Fuck, I’m tired as hell…”
Dragging his feet, Jason shuffled out of the east wing parlor. The mess remained untouched - cold pizza, empty boxes, stale chips - a crime scene Alfred would undoubtedly discover later. Instead of heading downstairs for breakfast, Jason made straight for his room, leaving the evidence of his late-night chaos behind.
Selina finally managed to catch a cab in the depths of Gotham. She slid into the backseat, drawing Bruce’s robe tighter around herself. The heater rattled faintly, but the cold still crept through the windows. She shivered - not enough for anyone to notice, but enough for her to feel it in her bones.
The ride was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed down heavy, awkward. The driver didn’t make small talk at first, just steered them through the half-awake city.
Her stop was the East End - a small apartment, hardly much, but it was a roof, and that was enough.
After a while, the driver caught her eyes in the rearview mirror. His voice was low, gravelly, edged with suspicion but worn down by years on the job. “Coming from somewhere special?”
Selina smirked faintly. “Mmm. Not really. Just some place filled with snobby rich kids.”
It wasn’t a lie. Galas were nothing more than playgrounds for Gotham’s spoiled heirs.
“You one of them?” he asked, one brow raised in the mirror.
“No. Do I wish I was? Maybe…” She smirked again, sharper this time. “But only for the diamonds.”
The driver chuckled under his breath. “Well, they get the finer things, don’t they? Meanwhile the rest of us scramble for scraps like rats.”
Selina hummed in agreement. “Hmm.”
The rest of the drive slipped into a half-noise silence - Gotham waking. Honking horns, engines revving, tires skidding across snow. Morning chaos, as unforgiving as the night before.
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Time: 6:43AM P.O.V.: Jason & Alfred (third person)
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Jason flopped onto his bed, more of a collapse than a landing, his back sinking into the mattress with a loud sigh. “It’s so earlyyyy…” he groaned, rolling onto his side so his back faced the door, ignoring the world and everything it expected from him.
“Thank God it’s Saturday,” he muttered, relief softening his voice. At least there was no school to suffer through today.
His eyelids were already drooping when a soft knock came at the door.
“Master Todd,” Alfred’s voice carried through, steady and unbothered. “It is six-forty-three in the morning. Your father is already downstairs eating. Your breakfast will be cold by the time you decide to join him. And no, I will not be warming it up for you.”
Jason groaned loudly into his pillow. “Let me eat cold breakfast, Alfred. Hell, throw it in the freezer if you want.”
Alfred opened the door without hesitation. “Do not make me count down the same way I counted down for your father, Master Todd.”
“It’s Saturday, Alfred…” Jason groaned lazily, his face half-buried in the pillow.
Alfred’s patience wore thin. He rolled his eyes skyward, then marched across the room with military precision. With a sharp tug, he threw the curtains open wide.
The winter sun, blazing off the snow outside, poured into the room like a floodlight. Jason hissed and threw an arm over his face, twisting away as though he were a vampire being burned alive.
“WHAT THE HELL, ALFRED?!” he shouted, blinking furiously.
Unimpressed, Alfred strolled to the bed and, with a swift motion, stripped the single blanket Jason had cocooned himself in. He surveyed the scene with cool disapproval.
“I see you indulged in takeout last night,” he said evenly, noting the grease stains on Jason’s wrinkled suit shirt and the faint dusting of orange powder on his fingertips.
Jason groaned again, flopping flat against the mattress.
“If this is your current state,” Alfred added, shaking his head, “I can only imagine the state of the parlor.”
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Time: 7:00AM P.O.V.: Bruce, Jason, Alfred (Third person)
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Bruce sat at the end of the long dining table, Gotham Gazette in hand, the soft crackle of paper the only sound he made. Alfred moved in and out of the kitchen with practiced rhythm, the faint clink of dishes following him like punctuation.
Jason was slumped over the table, chin nearly against his plate, blinking slow and heavy.
The paper lowered with a soft rustle, just enough for Jason to feel those blue eyes on him. He didn’t move. Didn’t straighten.
“You know,” Bruce said evenly, “you’re going to have a disfigured back by the time you’re my age if you keep sitting like that.”
Jason groaned without lifting his head. “Guess I’ll match the rest of the family trauma then.”
The edge of Bruce’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t answer, the paper rising again with a snap.
Alfred reappeared just in time to catch the exchange, raising one brow as he set a fresh plate on the table. “At this rate, Master Jason, I’ll have to add ‘spinal reconstruction’ to your weekly schedule.”
Jason finally sat up, glaring half-heartedly. “Fine, fine! God. Breakfast is supposed to be peaceful.”
“Breakfast,” Alfred said with his usual precision, “is supposed to be civilized.”
Jason stabbed his fork into a pancake and shoved a chunk into his mouth, chewing with deliberate fury. Syrup clung to the corner of his lip as he glared across the table, burning holes straight through the Gotham Gazette in Bruce’s hands.
“I can feel you staring, Jason,” Bruce said from behind the paper, his voice even but carrying the faintest smile.
Jason didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah? Well I can feel you smiling.” He punctuated it by shoving another enormous forkful of pancake into his mouth, chewing defiantly.
The rebellion backfired. Jason’s eyes went wide, and a harsh cough tore out of him as he started choking. It was a noise somewhere between a dying cat and a sputtering engine.
Alfred appeared instantly at his side, unruffled as always. “Master Jason, breakfast is not a competitive sport,” he said, delivering a firm pat between Jason’s shoulder blades. Jason wheezed, half-choking, half-laughing.
“Now, now. Cough it out, young sir.”
Bruce lowered the Gazette just far enough to glance at the scene, one brow arched. Jason hacked into his napkin, face red, while Alfred stood over him with the composure of a battlefield medic.
The paper rustled back up, Bruce’s voice flat but edged with amusement. “Told you to fix your posture.”
Selina finally reached her apartment complex on the East End, not far from the Iceberg Lounge - right under the Penguin’s watchful eye. His territory. His gaze. But at this hour, she doubted Cobblepot had reason to be looking for her.
She stepped carefully out of the cab, lifting the hem of her gown to keep it from dragging through slush. After paying the driver, she made her way through the entrance of the complex.
The stairwell greeted her like a punishment - narrow, dim, endless concrete steps. She sighed through her teeth. “Damn. Too many stairs. You’d think Gotham’s government could splurge on the East End for once.”
Her mutter echoed faintly in the stairwell as she climbed, one step at a time, toward the cramped apartment that passed for home.
At last, Selina reached her door. She dug the key from her clutch, turned the lock, and pushed inside. Home, sweet home.
“I’m here, my kittens,” she called softly.
Immediately, they swarmed her legs - sleek cats and scrappy strays pressing their heads against her, winding between her ankles. She laughed faintly and crouched just enough to let them brush against her hands.
“Oh, I know, my loves. You’d think I’d left you for a lifetime.”
She stepped inside carefully, tugging her shoes off by the door before closing it firmly and setting the locks.
“Come on then. Let’s all relax together. I missed each and every one of you,” she murmured as she moved toward her bedroom, a trail of cats padding after her, tiny paws tugging at the hem of her gown.
At last, Selina reached her door. She dug the key from her clutch, turned the lock, and pushed inside. Home, sweet home.
“I’m here, my kittens,” she called softly.
Immediately, they swarmed her legs - sleek cats and scrappy strays pressing their heads against her, winding between her ankles. She laughed faintly and crouched just enough to let them brush against her hands.
“Oh, I know, my loves. You’d think I’d left you for a lifetime.”
She stepped inside carefully, tugging her shoes off by the door before closing it firmly and setting the locks.
“Come on then. Let’s all relax together. I missed each and every one of you,” she murmured as she moved toward her bedroom, a trail of cats padding after her, tiny paws tugging at the hem of her gown.
In her room, Selina sat on the edge of the bed, exhausted, rubbing her palms down her face. Her voice was low, muffled.
“God… what am I gonna do?”
She forced herself up, padding to the dresser across from her bed. Her fingers dug through the drawer until they brushed against the small white packet she’d stashed there weeks ago. She let out a breath - half relief, half dread - as she turned it over in her hand.
“Good thing I kept that prescription filled,” she muttered. Her voice wavered, the words meant more for herself than the cats watching from the bed.
She shook a pill free, staring at it like it held the answer to every mistake. “Always pays to plan ahead…” Her smirk was faint, bitter. She swallowed it dry, then leaned against the dresser, shutting her eyes.
“You’d better work,” she whispered. “Because if you don’t…” Her jaw tightened. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
The cats pressed closer around her ankles, winding through her legs as if they could sense her unease. She crouched down, stroking one absentmindedly, masking her fear behind a smile she didn’t really feel.
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DISCLAIMER: I OWN NONE OF THE CHARACTERS WITHIN THIS STORY, ALL OWNERSHIP OF SUCH CHARACTERS BELONG TO DC COMICS.
My finger still hurts from last week but its fully healed :\
Chapter 4. Embers Before Dawn
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Location: Wayne Manor Date: February 20th, 2003
Time: 12:00AM P.O.V.: Third Person
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Bruce offered his hand, steady, almost too composed for a man who had just lost control in the shadows of his own study.
Selina didn’t take it. She pushed herself up on her own, her legs still trembling though she refused to show it. She straightened her spine as if that could erase the way he’d had her just minutes ago.
“I’m fine…” she muttered, avoiding his gaze. Her voice was clipped, controlled, but her chest rose too fast, betraying her.
Bruce didn’t press. He lowered his hand back to his side, the gesture dying in silence, though his eyes lingered on her - searching, calculating, unreadable as stone.
The only sound between them was the faint hum of the grandfather clock in the corner. Outside, Gotham lay unnaturally quiet, as if holding its breath.
Selina hated it. The stillness made her panic coil tighter in her stomach. Gotham wasn’t supposed to be this calm. Not tonight. Not after him.
Selina crouched, half-hidden behind the leather couch, fingertips brushing the silk of her dress. She wanted fabric between her and his eyes again - to cover the marks he’d left, to reclaim the upper hand.
But his voice caught her.
“Stay for the night.”
It wasn’t a command. Not like before. The gravel in his tone softened, stripped raw in a way that unsettled her more than the teeth at her shoulder or the bruises on her thighs.
Then, quieter - a plea, not a trap.
“Please.”
Her hand stilled on the gown. The city beyond the windows hummed in its eerie stillness, a Gotham too calm, as if it held its breath with them.
Selina closed her eyes for a beat, her chest rising with something sharp and unwanted. When she finally looked over the couch, her lashes low, his gaze pinned her - unmasked, unflinching.
Her fingers tightened on the fabric, silk clenched like a lifeline. She pulled it up against her chest but didn’t slip it on, not yet.
“I will,” she said finally, her voice measured, as if the words cost her something. Then she added, low and almost dismissive - but not quite - “Don’t expect me to stay long.”
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Time: 12:15AM P.O.V.: Jason Todd (Third Person)
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Jason usually stayed up late - not just because of patrol, but because, when Gotham finally loosened its shackles, he craved a little time for himself. Tonight, though, exhaustion won. He had fallen asleep with a slice of pizza still in his hand, a greasy PS2 controller slipping from his lap, his dress shirt hanging open, and his tie abandoned in some forgotten corner of the east wing parlor. The television still glowed in the dark, the game frozen mid-screen.
For once, he was just a teenager - no Robin, no soldier - just a rich kid passed out in the most uncomfortable position on the couch, blissfully unaware.
The gala had worn him down, all the forced smiles and conversations draining him dry. Final Fantasy lulled him toward sleep, and greasy takeout filled him better than the polished meals served at the party. Nights like this were rare. Moments where Jason Todd got to be nothing more, and nothing less, than a boy.
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Time: 12:30AM P.O.V.: Bruce & Selina (Third Person)
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Both Bruce and Selina left their clothing - and whatever dignity they still clung to - scattered across the floor of his study. It wasn’t the first time they’d done this dance. They’d tangled countless times as the Bat and the Cat, with and without masks, even once with Alfred catching them mid-act and muttering a weary, “Oh dear.”
Bruce moved quietly through the darkened hallways of the manor, every step steady, purposeful. He didn’t need to look back or offer his hand - he knew she would follow. Selina always followed, soundless and fluid, the cat trailing the bat through the shadows.
Selina followed him quietly, her stride steady despite the tremor in her legs from what had just happened in his study. She should have felt satisfied - she was satisfied - but a single thought spun through her mind like a broken record:
He came in me.
Her heart hammered against her ribs at the thought, so loud she was sure it would give her away. Almost like she was about to collapse from the sheer panic clawing at her chest. But her face never betrayed her. Of course it didn’t. She was Selina Kyle. Catwoman. The queen of the poker face. Her sly smirk stayed perfectly in place, masking the storm.
Still, the heat between her thighs - the mix of their bodies lingering there - was a warning siren she couldn’t silence.
It’s fine, Selina. He’s done this before, and you never ended up pregnant. You haven’t… you haven’t… oh, hell. You haven’t.
She kept walking, every step heavy with denial and dread, trailing Bruce like a shadow that refused to falter.
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Time: 12:45AM P.O.V: Alfred (Third Person)
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The gala seemed to wither before midnight. The parents with children had been the first to vanish, carriages of glossy sedans whisking them away. The rest of Gotham’s gilded elite trickled out in clusters, their smiles polite, their hands still empty of the one thing they had come for: Bruce Wayne’s attention. Even the press, vultures in gowns and tuxedos, had folded early, their lenses lowered as though something had stilled them.
It wasn’t natural. The Manor should’ve still been humming with empty chatter and champagne laughter. Instead, the halls carried only echoes.
It was as if Gotham herself had decided the night was finished. A silence that didn’t comfort - it warned.
Lady Gotham was planning something.
Alfred shook off the feeling. After so many years, he knew better than to believe Gotham capable of peace. The city was never kind, least of all to its poor son, Bruce.
He took in his surroundings as he worked, methodical as ever. Tables left littered with half-emptied glasses and broken dishes, wine staining silk cloths. Some plates abandoned mid-meal, others with food picked apart by children too restless to finish. The mess of the wealthy looked no different than the mess of the poor, only gilded in crystal and silver.
With a tired sigh, Alfred bent to his task. Just an old soldier now - retired, perhaps, but never at rest.
In the corner, the orchestra and jazz band packed up their instruments, their once-grand music now reduced to the muffled shuffling of cases and chairs. Alfred moved quietly among them, sweeping away the remnants of a crowd already gone.
Behind him, the sky loomed dark, untouched by the flare of the Bat-Signal.
“Strange,” he murmured under his breath, the word dissolving into the empty hall as he returned to cleaning Gotham’s echoes.
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Time: 12:59AM P.O.V.: Bruce & Selina (Third Person)
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Bruce opened the door to his bedroom. The room was unchanged, preserved as though time itself hadn’t dared touch it. Rich wood paneling lined the walls, their varnish still catching the low light with a subtle, dignified sheen. Heavy drawers stood in their appointed place, carved edges softened by years of use. The bed frame - dark oak, sturdy, old money - anchored the space, its weight echoed by the Persian rug beneath, a relic that looked as though it had been passed down for generations.
The air carried that familiar mix: Bruce’s cologne lingering faintly in the fibers, layered over the earthy, dry scent of the wood itself. It was a room that smelled of him, of old wealth, of history sealed behind locked doors.
For Selina, it was disarming - intimate in a way that no ballroom or rooftop could ever be. Nothing had changed, not even the ghosts.
Bruce had already crossed the room, his movements quiet but heavy with exhaustion. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, the hush of fabric filling the silence as he pulled back the sheets. The rustle lingered in the air like a question unspoken.
“Selina…” His voice was low, almost rough - not the commanding timbre of Gotham’s protector, but the stripped-down edge of a man reaching past pride. Just her name, but it carried the weight of years, of things said and unsaid.
He didn’t have to say much - he never did. Just the sound of his voice, the quiet gravity behind her name, was enough to draw her closer. Selina slipped beneath the covers, the kind of rich, heavy linens she knew she’d rarely allow herself to get used to.
But she didn’t drift too close. Not yet. She kept just enough distance between them, her body taut under the sheets. Not because she didn’t want to be near him - God knew she did - but because her pulse was still running too high, panic pressing sharp against her ribs. Not panic of him, but of what they had just done. Of what he had done.
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Time 1:10AM P.O.V: Gotham City (Third Person)
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Gotham was quiet for once. Not silent - never silent. Petty thefts still slipped through alleyways, muggers prowled corners, and the occasional body would be found by dawn. But compared to most nights, it was nothing. No grand schemes. No city-wide chaos. Just the city’s usual simmering rot.
Rare.
Tonight, Lady Gotham held her breath. Her streets hushed their fury, her shadows tightened around their corners, her sky left unstained by the signal. For her son. For her dark knight.
But Gotham was never merciful without reason. The stillness was not kindness - it was a pause. A pull of the bowstring before release. She had something waiting. Hidden. Planned. And when she finally exhaled, it would not be quiet.
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DISCLAIMER: I OWN NONE OF THE CHARACTERS WITHIN THIS STORY, ALL OWNERSHIP OF SUCH CHARACTERS BELONG TO DC COMICS.
I would've released this yesterday, but I almost chopped off my finger wrapping my kit for school. I'm doing fine now!
Selina’s heels clicked against the bare wood, tracing a slow, lazy circle around his desk - just outside the border of the rug. Her fingers drifted across the polished surface, skimming over his papers like she owned the place. When they passed over a neatly stacked file, she let her touch linger, a small, deliberate trespass.
Bruce’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need to say a word; the shift in his posture was enough.
Selina noticed. Of course she noticed.
“What’s wrong, hm?” Her voice was velvet with an edge. “Too many ghosts in here… or just mine?”
His eyes tracked her every move - calculating, weighing. “You shouldn’t be here, Selina,” he said, voice low, clipped.
She smirked, tilting her head just enough to let the firelight catch in her eyes. “Funny you say that… but you left the door open, detective.”
Her hand slid across the desk again, and with a flick of her wrist, she nudged a stack of papers off the edge. They spilled to the floor in a soft, deliberate rustle. “Oops.”
Bruce arched a brow - a silent question, sharp and unamused.
Selina only stepped closer, leaning against the edge of his desk until she blocked his view of the fire entirely. “You know, Bruce… I never realized how much you’d rather sit in the dark with the dead than take your own pulse.”
The glass in his hand came down hard on the desk - not enough to shatter, but enough to make the whiskey tremble.
Jason made it into the east wing parlor in exactly thirteen steps - he’d counted. Which was impressive, considering he’d practically sprinted the whole way. Normally, Alfred would’ve caught him for running in the manor, but tonight the butler was too busy tending to the birthday circus downstairs.
He let out a loud, theatrical sigh as he yanked off his tie like it had been trying to choke him all night.
“Stupid tie,” he muttered, tossing it onto the couch.
Dropping into the armchair, Jason reached for the TV remote and the familiar weight of his PS2 controller waiting on the coffee table, right where he’d left it earlier.
The parlor was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the television screen - bright, but still better than the golden, over-warm glare of the ballroom chandeliers.
Downstairs, it was all fake smiles, bad music, and people who looked at him like he was some kind of charity case stuffed into a suit. Up here, it was just him, the game, and the plate of still - warm food Alfred had “accidentally” left out for him.
“Bet Bruce is already gone,” Jason muttered, mashing buttons. “Lucky.”
He kicked off his loafers, unbuckled his belt, and tossed it into the far corner. Then, with his plate balanced on one knee, he propped his feet on the coffee table and hit start on his game - Final Fantasy. The opening theme filled the parlor, drowning out whatever distant noise came from the party.
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Time: 10:15PM P.O.V.: Bruce & Selina (Third Person)
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Selina stood between Bruce and the desk, the firelight framing her silhouette. Leaning back against the polished wood, she looked down at him with a slow, knowing smile.
“Bruce…” she purred, the name drawn out like a dare.
“If you really want me gone, you just have to say the word,” she continued, voice still velvet but edged with playfulness. “Do you really want me gone? To sit here in the dark with your ghosts, on your special day?”
Her gloved fingers brushed under his jaw, tilting his face toward hers. Her touch lingered - not soft, but deliberate.
“Let me stay tonight… Bruce.”
She held his gaze, waiting.
Silence.
Bruce didn’t move, didn’t blink - just watched her, his eyes giving away nothing.
Selina’s smirk faltered into something unreadable. She released his chin and pushed herself off the desk, taking a measured step back.
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Time: 10:30PM P.O.V.: Alfred (third person)
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It was 10:30 PM, and the crowd still hadn’t thinned. Some of Gotham’s social elites had clearly forgotten their manners—others had simply forgotten themselves entirely, dulled by too many glasses of champagne.
Alfred shook his head faintly in disapproval.
"Young men these days seem to forget their limits," he murmured under his breath as he gathered another stack of empty plates.
The music had shifted - gone was the stately classical string section from earlier. A mellow, polished jazz band now played, a concession to the younger guests who preferred something with a touch more swing. It gave the room a warmer hum, though the din of laughter and clinking glasses still carried over it.
Couples danced. Others drank even more. Children darted between long skirts and tuxedoed legs, weaving their own chaos through the crowd.
Alfred had just stepped to the back of the gala room, setting a stack of dishes into the sink, when a familiar voice caught him.
"Mr. Pennyworth," Lucius Fox greeted warmly, a half-smile beneath the rim of his glass. "I see you’re busy as ever, but tell me - have you seen Bruce? Man vanishes like smoke. I know he hates these things, but I’d like to at least shake the man’s hand before the night’s over."
Alfred allowed himself a polite, knowing laugh. "Mr. Fox, I trust you’re enjoying yourself this evening. As for Mr. Wayne… he has, shall we say, retreated to matters of a private nature, which I cannot in good conscience divulge." His tone was smooth, courteous, with just enough formality to politely close the door.
Lucius sighed and shook his head, amused. "Bruce always does this. Very well, Alfred. Just tell him I said happy birthday." He lifted his champagne glass in a small toast.
"Will do, Mr. Fox," Alfred replied with a small smile before continuing toward the kitchen, leaving Lucius to rejoin the hum of the gala.
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Time: 10:49PM P.O.V.: Bruce & Selina (Third Person)
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Before Selina could take another step away, Bruce’s hand closed firmly around her wrist.
Their eyes locked. The silence in the study felt louder than the music drifting up from the gala below, louder than the steady crackle of the fire in the hearth.
His grip didn’t loosen. His thumb traced once across the inside of her wrist - not by accident, but with quiet intent.
Selina’s breath caught, her smirk faltering into something sharper.
“I see you’ve made up your mind, Bruce… Are you sure this is what you want?”
The tension thickened until it felt like the air itself could shatter.
“Bru - ”
Bruce’s mouth crashed into hers. The kiss was sharp, almost bruising, their teeth grazing in the heat of it. It wasn’t romance - it was history condensed into a single collision: years of missed nights, of rooftop fights, of near-captures and narrow escapes.
Selina’s hands pressed against his chest, not to push away, but to pull him closer - as if she could close every mile and every year between them in one breath.
Bruce’s arm slid around the small of her back, drawing her against him. The kiss deepened, and restraint gave way to something far older, far hungrier.
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Location: Gotham City Time: 11:00PM
P.O.V. : Third Person
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Gotham was quieter than usual, but only on the surface. The social elite had flocked to Wayne Manor for Bruce Wayne’s birthday, drawing the city’s attention - and much of its arrogance - under one roof.
In the East End, the Narrows, and the lower districts, crime still moved through the streets. Robberies. Gang activity. The occasional assault. Deaths were inevitable, but nothing on the scale of destruction the city was used to.
Without Catwoman on the rooftops, small-time crooks grew bold. The GCPD felt the shift, tension rising in every precinct. Mid-tier rogues stirred in the shadows, sniffing for opportunity, while the city’s true crime lords stayed buried in their empires for the night.
Lady Gotham held her breath - tense, waiting - but not daring to bare her teeth. Not tonight.
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Location: Wayne Manor Time: 11:05PM
P.O.V.: Bruce and Selina (third person)
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Bruce and Selina’s mouths stayed locked, each kiss deeper, pulling years of tension into the space between them. He guided her back toward his desk with a hand firm at the small of her back, the other finding its way down - a firm squeeze, a quick smack - before his lips broke from hers.
Their breathing was rapid, synced, the air between them hot.
“Stay,” he said, his voice low, almost gravel.
“I will,” she murmured, letting herself settle on the edge of his desk. “I’m not leaving you to your ghosts tonight. Just you and me, Bruce.”
Her fingers found his tie, tugging lightly, a little smirk curling her lips. “I promise, B.”
The silk slipped through her fingers, tossed somewhere behind her without care, and she was already moving to his shirt buttons.
His hands closed over hers, halting her. “Slow, Selina. Tonight… we take it slow.”
The flutter in her chest was almost irritating - familiar, dangerous, something she only ever felt with him. She gave a small nod and pulled him back into a kiss.
This one was different - softer, still hungry, but layered with something rare from him: gentleness.
Her fingers slid lower, undoing his buttons one by one. He broke the kiss just long enough to brush his lips against her cheek, trailing them down her neck in deliberate, unhurried presses.
She almost moaned, but a light laugh slipped out instead. “Bruce, you said slow,” she teased, undoing the last button.
One hand found the zipper at her back, and with one smooth motion, it came undone. “Guess we’re even, Selina.”
She let out a small yelp as he tugged the top of her dress down, then pressed her flat onto the desk with a swift, confident push.
“Bruce- ”
He just chuckled, leaning in, his mouth capturing hers again.
Bruce slipped the rest of her dress from her waist, letting it fall in a soft heap to the floor as his mouth claimed hers again. His hands slid down from her waist, over the curve of her hips, until they hooked behind her knees. Without breaking the kiss, he pulled her legs closer, angling her so she wasn’t teetering against the desk’s edge. The movement brought her flush against him, erasing any space she might have had to slip away.
A sharp breath escaped her between kisses as the cooler air hit the newly bared skin. There was no backing out now, no chance to turn and run the way she sometimes did.
She told herself she wasn’t turned on - that she could keep that truth locked down - but her body betrayed her. She loved Bruce, hated admitting how much power he had over her in moments like this.
A soft, involuntary whimper escaped her when his hips pressed into hers, the edge of his belt buckle grazing exactly where she didn’t want it to. Not yet, she told herself, holding back the sound building in her throat. If I let go now, he’ll lose control.
His right hand slid down her stomach, deliberate and slow, until his fingers hovered at the band of her thong.
The kiss broke. His pupils were blown, his gaze locked entirely on hers.
“Selina… are you sure?”
Selina’s smile curled as she tilted her head. “Stop dragging it out, handsome.”
That was it - the last chance for either of them to walk away. She’d made her choice.
Bruce’s hand slid under the band of her thong with unhurried precision, his touch deliberate, like he was mapping her. A quiet gasp slipped from her lips as his fingers traced over her heat - slow, steady strokes, not giving her more than he intended.
Her back arched instinctively, lashes lowering as her breath caught. A low sound - half a whimper, half a curse - escaped her when his thumb found her clit, drawing lazy, controlled circles before he eased a finger inside.
“Bruce - Her voice cracked on his name, the confidence in her tone thinning under the weight of his control.
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Time: 11:10PM P.O.V.: Alfred (third person)
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Alfred continued to weave his way through the crowd of the gala. The jazz band’s warm notes filled the air, coaxing some couples onto the dance floor while others lingered near the bar. Children darted between the tables, though a few had already surrendered to sleep, curled up on makeshift beds of two chairs pushed together, their fathers’ coats draped over them like blankets.
His duty for the night was simple: keep the gala running smoothly, ensure the manor remained presentable, and politely deflect any questions about Bruce’s whereabouts.
It was a small mercy the Bat-Signal hadn’t lit the night sky. It felt as if Lady Gotham herself were holding her breath, granting her knight one evening of peace - especially on his thirtieth birthday.
As Alfred passed one of the dining tables, his gaze softened at the sight of a young boy asleep, head resting on his folded arms beside a half-eaten plate of mashed potatoes, ham, and vegetables.
Catching the eye of the boy’s mother, Alfred offered a gentle smile.
“Is he finished for the night, Mrs.?” he asked.
“I believe so,” she said with a fond glance at her son. “I’ll be taking him home shortly - he’s out like a light.” She giggled softly, patting the boy’s back.
“Very well, then, Mrs. I trust you’ve had a pleasant evening? Would you care for someone to escort you, or is your husband here?” Alfred asked, carefully lifting the plate so as not to disturb the sleeping child.
“He is - just off speaking to some friends. Again, thank you so much. It’s been a pleasure to celebrate Mr. Wayne’s birthday. Truly, it’s an honor. His parents would have been so proud.”
Alfred’s expression warmed, though his composure never wavered.
“Why, thank you, Mrs. Do have a very good night.”
With that, he moved on, the boy’s half-finished plate balanced neatly in hand.
------------------------------------------------
Time: 11:15PM P.O.V.: Bruce & Selina (third person)
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Selina tried to keep her composure as Bruce’s hand continued its slow, deliberate work on her - until he slid a second finger inside.
“Oh~!” Her hand shot down, gripping his wrist instinctively.
The circles he drew over her clit were anything but lazy now - faster, purposeful - paired with the steady thrust of his fingers, stretching her in that maddeningly perfect pace he knew she loved.
Her brows furrowed, eyes squeezed shut, and her breathing broke into sharper, louder moans.
“Bruce… no~” she whimpered, the sound catching in her throat as one of her heels slipped from her foot and hit the floor with a sharp thud. The other heel still clung to her, precarious.
“Too much already, Selina? I thought composure was your specialty,” Bruce murmured, his tone rich with quiet challenge. His free hand reached down, unhurriedly removing her remaining heel and letting it drop beside the first.
“Stop toying with me, Bats,” Selina ground out through clenched teeth.
Bruce’s touch stilled completely, and a small, involuntary whine of frustration escaped her lips.
“Selina,” he said evenly, “lay back.”
She did - though not out of obedience. Curiosity guided her.
But curiosity, she knew all too well, had a way of killing the cat.
She still sat perched on the edge of his desk, his hands once again hooked under her knees. There was no need for him to part her thighs - she let them stay exactly where they were, curiosity keeping her still. She wanted to know exactly what Bruce had in mind.
His hands moved to the hem of her underwear, and with one smooth, unhurried motion, he slid them down her legs and let them drop to the floor. Just like that, she was bare to him. Vulnerable - not for the first time, but tonight felt different.
Her breath caught as he sank to his knees before her. “Bruce?” she asked, her voice low, uncertain if she wanted the answer.
She knew exactly where this was going… but she wasn’t about to admit it to herself.
He didn’t answer. The only sound was the soft crackle of the fireplace. Its glow gilded him in gold, making him look like something carved from marble - broad-shouldered, impossibly solid, and devastatingly handsome.
To him, Selina was the true work of art. In this light, she was all curves and elegance, soft where he was hard, dangerous in the same way an ancient goddess statue might be - something worshiped and stolen in the same breath.
Selina hissed in surprise when his tongue touched her - slow, deliberate, dragging from her entrance up to her clit. Her hand shot to his head, fingers tangling in his gelled hair and ruining his hairstyle he’d worn for the night.
Bruce felt the faint tremor in her body after the first slow lick. He’d been here before - he knew every tell, every sound, every way to undo her. This time, he didn’t waste it.
He teased her first, tracing lazy circles along her labia, skimming her entrance, before closing his mouth over her clit. He alternated - soft kisses, firm suction, and long, deliberate strokes of his tongue that left her breath hitching.
Selina’s fingers tightened in his hair, rough and desperate, her thighs clamping around his head. “Bruce—! Don’t… do - ah - that!” she managed, sitting up slightly.
He didn’t stop.
Her taste lingered on his tongue, intoxicating, and the sound of her voice - half warning, half surrender - was enough to make him keep going. Her pleasure was in his hands, and he wasn’t about to let it go.
“Selina…” he murmured against her, between the slow alternations of his tongue. “Would you really want me to stop?”
Before she could answer, his mouth closed over her clit and his finger slid inside her in one smooth motion.
Her back arched off the desk, thighs locking around his head like a vice, her body tightening around his touch. A sharp gasp tore from her lips.
“Thought so…” Bruce said, glancing up just long enough to watch the way her face betrayed every flicker of pleasure.
In that moment, Selina felt an almost personal betrayal. Composure was her craft - poker face her armor - and yet Bruce had a way of dismantling her without effort. Then again, they dismantled each other, in and out of the bedroom, stripping away the masks they wore for everyone else.
It was as if their souls had been orbiting toward one another since the very beginning. Perhaps they had - Lady Gotham had a habit of weaving fates together, whether for good or ill, rich or poor, hero or thief.
And if the city had favorites, it was clear she adored her Dark Knight and her Cat Burglar side by side.
Selina let out a sharp whimper. “Ouwh~! Bruce~!” Her hand came down in a soft smack against the top of his head, more instinct than protest.
He answered with a faint graze of his teeth against her clit - just enough to make her whole body jolt. His finger moved inside her at a slow, deliberate rhythm, each motion brushing the spot he knew could undo her completely.
Was he going to let her reach that peak? Maybe. But Bruce Wayne was not the type to deny her when he could just as easily unravel her.
His finger pressed and stroked relentlessly against that sweet spot, each movement sending shivers up her spine. Selina’s back arched, hips bucking against his hand and mouth.
“BRUCE~! Oh God~!” Her cry was raw, her composure completely shattered. One hand clawed at the polished wood of the desk, the other tangled in his hair, pulling him closer into her heat.
Bruce’s face was so close to her that breathing became secondary. If it meant worshipping every inch of her, he’d go without air.
He felt her tighten around his fingers, every muscle in her body drawing taut. Bruce knew the signs - he could read her like the back of his hand.
“Shit—ah… Bruce… I - I’m gonna cum~!” she gasped, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths.
“Let go, Selina…” his voice was low, deliberate.
“Ngh… ah - fuck… Bruce!” she cried, breaking apart as her climax ripped through her. Her back arched, thighs trembling, and Bruce didn’t relent - drinking her in, every last drop, as if it belonged to him alone.
------------------------------------------------
Time: 11:45PM P.O.V. Jason Todd (Third person)
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Jason had been up way too long, and it showed. He let out a huge, unfiltered yawn — the kind you don’t do in front of company — because, hell, this was home now. Wayne Manor or not, he wasn’t about to start acting like he’d been raised in a country club.
Somehow, he’d even managed to smuggle in an entire junk food buffet: Doritos, Mountain Dew, Cheetos, and pizza. It was a miracle Alfred hadn’t confiscated the lot. At fourteen, Jason had mastered the art of maneuvering through the manor unseen — and convincing the occasional delivery guy to ignore the gates and the “private property” signs.
He mashed the buttons on his controller like his life depended on it.
“Square, square, square—FUCK! Man, I had it!”
Typical teenage Final Fantasy rage. He slammed pause, grabbed a greasy slice from the open box on the coffee table, and took a bite so big the molten cheese nearly killed him. Six empty Mountain Dew cans littered the floor already, but he cracked open number seven like a champ.
“Damn… almost died there,” he muttered between gulps. “Imagine the tombstone — Jason Todd, choked to death on pizza. Real classy.” He snorted at his own joke.
He leaned back into the couch, controller still in hand, when a faint murmur of voices reached him. Gala chatter? Probably. Whatever. Bruce’s rich people parties had nothing on his save file. Jason shrugged and unpaused the game.
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Time: 11:50PM P.O.V.: Bruce & Selina (Third Person)
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Selina pushed herself upright, unable to hold back any longer, and her hands went straight to Bruce’s belt. The metallic click of the buckle felt loud in the quiet study. She tugged the leather free, unzipped his dress pants, and freed him with deliberate slowness.
Her breath caught for just a second as his arousal sprang free. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him like this - but it was rare to see Bruce, not the cowl, stripped of all armor.
She exhaled through her teeth, gaze flicking up to meet his. “Are you really this turned on by me, Bruce?” she teased, voice low and sultry.
His mouth twitched into something between a smirk and a warning. “I’m not the one who came in seconds, Selina.”
Her gasp was sharp, indignant. “I did not come in seconds,” she said, pouting at him for just a beat before her expression shifted into something far more dangerous.
That mischief curled on her lips as she leaned in, fingers still wrapped around him. “We’ll see who can last.”
Selina slid gracefully to her knees in front of him, eyes locked on his. “Let me please you too,” she purred, the edge of a smirk tugging at her lips. “It’s not fair to leave you like that… can’t have you hungry for me.”
Her hand wrapped around him, giving a few slow, teasing strokes. Bruce’s fingers curled against the edge of the desk, his jaw tightening at the sudden contact.
“Sensitive, Bats?” she murmured, dragging the pad of her finger lazily across his tip, deliberately slow.
Her smirk deepened. “Too bad.”
She dragged a slow, deliberate lick from the base of his length to the tip, her tongue gliding along him like she was mapping out every inch. At the end, she was almost gentle - pressing a lingering kiss against him.
Bruce groaned low in his throat, his grip on the edge of the desk tightening. He kept his hands where they were, but the slight, involuntary stutter of his hips betrayed him. Selina caught it instantly.
“Seems like you’re sensitive, Bruce,” she purred, giving him another languid lick, savoring the way his body tensed beneath her touch.
His eyes squeezed shut at the second pass, his knuckles whitening against the desk. She could see the battle playing out in him—whether to keep his hands braced where they were or bury them in her hair. Selina’s smirk deepened.
“You’re struggling, Bruce.”
Before she could take him fully into her mouth, the last blow for Bruce was the moment her lips closed around the tip of his cock. A guttural groan tore from his throat.
That’s it,” he growled.
His hand tangled in her hair, pulling her off him and away from the heat she’d just given him. She looked up at him, lips parted, eyes gleaming with danger.
“Wha - ”
The word died in her throat as he scooped her up like she weighed nothing. In two strides, he carried her to the couch and laid her down, his shadow falling over her.
“That’s it,” he said again, voice low and rough, “I’ve had enough of your games, Selina.”
Dragging her down the cushions to position her, he hooked both arms around her knees, keeping her open and exactly where he wanted her.
Curiosity had officially killed the cat. He thrust into her with no restraint, the force stealing the air from her lungs. Selina gasped, eyes widening, one hand clawing into the cushion behind her while the other clamped around his wrist.
This was Bruce Wayne unchained. She’d met this side of him before- but tonight was different. The control he usually wore like armor was gone, stripped away, leaving only something raw and consuming. He moved with the relentless fury of a wildfire tearing through the California hills.
The fireplace’s glow bled across the study walls, shadows dancing like devils. Between that heat and the fever of their bodies, the air was thick, oppressive - hotter than hell itself.
Bruce drove into her like a man starved, like a soldier returned from war after a decade without the woman he loved. Selina’s hand shot up to the back of his neck, pulling him down until her mouth claimed his in a kiss that was all hunger and heat.
“Bruce…” she breathed against his lips, her legs locking around his waist to pull him deeper.
The change in angle dragged a sound out of him - a sharp, choked moan that broke into the kiss.
“Agh… fuck,” he groaned into her mouth, the word vibrating against her lips.
He might have been deep inside her, but not deep enough for either of their satisfaction. Not deep enough to show her - without words -that he loved her in his own way. Bruce never said it aloud, but his actions, the way he moved, always spoke it for him.
“On all fours, Selina. Right now.” His voice was breathless, urgent.
Selina smirked faintly against the rush of his command. “Someone’s desperate,” she muttered as she felt him pull out.
She shifted to turn over, but hesitation flickered across her face. Clicking her tongue, she shook her head. “Tch.”
“Bruce… we don’t fit.”
“We do.”
“No, we don’t.”
That dangerous glint sharpened in his eyes. Before she could argue again, his hands closed around her hips and pulled her off the couch entirely.
She gave a startled gasp as her knees hit the rug, the cool floor biting against her skin.
“Here,” he said, voice low but edged with command. “Now we do.”
Her laugh was half a scoff, half a challenge, breathless already. “You really think -”
Whatever she was about to say dissolved into a sharp inhale as he positioned himself behind her, the heavy heat of him pressing between her thighs. His grip was unyielding, his palms spreading over her hips as if anchoring her in place.
The firelight threw their shadows long against the study walls, and the air between them pulsed with heat - body heat, fire heat, and something darker.
He pushed forward with a slow, deliberate slide, watching her spine arch, watching her knuckles go white against the floor.
“We fit,” he murmured against her ear, and then drove into her like he meant to prove it.
The first thrust was brutal in its precision, sinking into her with such force that her palms slid forward against the rug. The sound of their bodies colliding echoed in the heavy quiet of the study - sharp, wet, unashamed.
Selina’s breath caught, a gasp breaking into a low moan she tried to smother by biting her lip. Bruce didn’t give her time to recover. His hands locked on her hips, dragging her back into every stroke, the rhythm unrelenting.
The firelight painted them in gold and shadow, flickering across the tense line of his shoulders and the arch of her back. Sweat gathered at the nape of her neck, trailing down her spine, mixing with the heat of his chest when he leaned forward.
“Bruce -”
Her voice cracked, her grip tightening on the cushion she’d dragged down with her. He responded with a low growl, his breath hot against her ear.
“Don’t run from it.”
Another thrust - deeper, harder -made her jolt, a strangled sound slipping out before she could stop it. His hand slid from her hip to her shoulder, fingers digging in, pulling her into him until the angle made her cry out.
The room felt suffocatingly hot now, the combined heat of the fire and their bodies turning the air thick. Shadows writhed on the walls, the only other sound the slap of skin and the ragged, uneven cadence of their breathing.
“We fit,” he ground out again, punctuating it with a thrust so deep she thought her vision might splinter.
Every thrust felt harder than the last, his pace brutal in its focus. Selina’s body tried to keep up, muscles tightening with each snap of his hips, but she could feel it—the coiled heat building low in her stomach.
Not yet.
She bit her lip until it stung, forcing her breathing into sharp, controlled bursts. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. Not so easily.
Bruce must have sensed it, because his grip changed - one hand anchoring her hip, the other sliding up to her shoulder again. He pulled her back into him, the force driving him deeper, until -
There.
The tip of him pressed right against her sweet spot, the impact sharp enough to rip a gasp from her throat. Her eyes went wide, nails biting into the cushion beneath her.
“Bruce -”
It came out strangled, broken. He didn’t stop. He stayed there, deep, his breath hot against her ear as he murmured, low and deliberate:
“Let go.”
She shook her head, jaw clenched, but then he thrust again - harder, holding her there, grinding in a way that made her whole body shudder. The sound that tore from her chest was half a moan, half a cry, her control fracturing in an instant.
Her legs trembled, her back arched, and the orgasm hit her like a wave breaking against rock - violent, impossible to hold back. She tried to stay silent, but the sounds escaped anyway, breathless and raw.
Bruce groaned, the vibration of it against her skin almost as devastating as the way he was still buried inside her, still pulsing, still refusing to let her go.
“That’s it,” he growled, voice rough with his own unraveling. “That’s my girl.”
The heat of him spilled into her, the sensation flooding through her in sync with her own release. The room felt molten, the fire snapping in the grate, their shadows shaking on the walls like witnesses to something they shouldn’t see.
Her arms gave out first. She collapsed forward onto the cushion she’d dragged to the floor, her cheek pressing against it as her body trembled in the aftershocks. Her breathing came hard and uneven, each inhale tasting faintly of smoke from the fire.
Bruce stayed inside her, his chest pressed to her back, his grip loosening on her shoulder but not letting go entirely. She could feel him still - deep, pulsing in the aftermath of his release. Warmth spread inside her in slow, unmistakable waves.
And that’s when it hit her.
Oh my god… he came in me.
Her fingers tightened on the cushion. She didn’t move, didn’t say it out loud, but the thought rang through her like a bell. She’d been with Bruce long enough to know - he didn’t lose control like that. Not with her. Not with anyone.
He exhaled against her ear, the sound low, steadying, almost grounding her despite what had just happened. “Selina…” His voice was rough, not quite steady.
She kept her eyes closed, her mind spinning. Her body still ached in all the ways she liked, but underneath it was that unshakable truth -no condom, no retreat, no restraint.
He stayed there another beat, his weight heavy over her, as if he wasn’t ready to let her go. And when he finally pulled back, the loss made her shiver. She stayed on her knees, breathing, listening to the quiet pop of the fire.
Behind her, Bruce straightened, his footsteps slow as he moved toward the couch. His hand brushed her back once on the way, a wordless touch that made her pulse jump.
Selina sat back on her heels, brushing her hair from her face, her smirk returning - though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Guess you really missed me, huh?”
Bruce didn’t answer. But his gaze on her, dark and unreadable, said more than his words ever could.
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DISCLAIMER: I OWN NONE OF THE CHARACTERS WITHIN THIS STORY, ALL OWNERSHIP OF SUCH CHARACTERS BELONG TO DC COMICS.
Thanks for reading! <3
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 20 · 𝔊𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔪’𝔰 𝔅𝔯𝔬𝔨𝔢𝔫 𝔅𝔬𝔫𝔡𝔰 ⛓️ · —Prologue—----------------------------------------------------
Being the child of grief and lo
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 14 · 𝔊𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔪’𝔰 𝔅𝔯𝔬𝔨𝔢𝔫 𝔅𝔬𝔫𝔡𝔰 ⛓️ · Chapter 1. In The House Of Hollow Men
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Bruce managed to slip out without another word to Selina. Years of slipping away from galas - and even more years as Batman - had trained him well for moments like this. He moved through the crowd like a shadow, unseen and untouchable.
He said nothing to Alfred on his way out, and Alfred, having raised Bruce, understood perfectly. This was nothing new.
Meanwhile, Selina mingled with the guests as effortlessly as always. She chatted with the women who’d complimented her dress, accepted a glass of fine champagne from a gentleman, and watched the reactions around her with calculating eyes. She enjoyed the whispers and the questions. Who was she really? The mystery was part of the allure.
Typical Selina Kyle.
Alfred, too, recognized the pattern. He had seen this dance before.
Half an hour passed. Selina casually sampled desserts from the table, her movements graceful and unhurried. When her eyes met Alfred’s across the room, she offered him a sly, knowing smile.
Alfred approached to clear the empty plates. “Will you be requiring anything else this evening, Miss Kyle?”
“No, thank you, Alfred. Just stretching my legs.”
“Of course, Miss Kyle. Do enjoy the rest of the evening.”
With a quiet nod, Alfred retreated with the plates, and Selina slipped away from the ballroom with the same poised ease that had captivated everyone earlier.
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Time: 9:00PM P.O.V.: Third Person
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Bruce Wayne sat behind his desk in the study, still dressed in the formal black suit and tie he wore for nights like this. The room was quiet, save for the low hum of the distant ballroom music - muffled by thick doors and heavier thoughts.
The glass of whiskey in his hand was nearly empty. He drank it slowly, not for the taste, but for the burn.
Thoughts circled his mind with the precision and weight of a storm system - never stopping, just shifting their order.
Open cases.
Barbara’s recovery.
Jason’s restlessness in the field.
Dick’s silence.
And louder than all of it - always louder - was the question that returned every year on this day:
How the hell did I make it this far without them?
He leaned forward, elbow on the desk, and picked up the photo frame that rarely left its place. His thumb brushed over his mother’s face - forever frozen in time, smiling, unaware.
They would’ve wanted better for me, he thought.
My mother would’ve never accepted this double life.
My father might’ve tried to understand it. Might’ve tried to stop it.
I'm always exhausted.
His jaw clenched.
He hated these thoughts. Not because they were painful—he was used to pain - but because they felt indulgent. Weak. And yet, they always came.
Sometimes he wondered if the night would’ve gone differently - if he hadn’t begged his father to take him to see El Zorro.
They could’ve still been alive.
He finished the whiskey in a single, steady swig. It scorched his throat, but he didn’t flinch.
The gala music was little more than a ghost now, flickering in and out behind the weight of his memory.
He stayed there, still, as the fire in the hearth crackled, as the thoughts got louder, as the room held its breath.
Still brooding.
Still breaking, piece by piece, every year.
I’d mingled a little too long with Gotham’s finest.
Probably enjoyed myself a little too much, too.
I’d already given Alfred the polite smile and “no thank you” ages ago, but people just couldn’t help themselves—one compliment after another.
And I couldn’t help letting them know I agreed.
A glance. A smirk. A look that said: yes, I know the dress is stunning—thank you for noticing.
Eventually, I slipped out of the ballroom—or gala, or whatever word they’re using to justify stuffing old money into a glass box for a few hours.
The halls were quieter out here. Quieter and colder.
I know this manor. Every hallway, every creaking floorboard. I’ve stolen things here, kissed him in corners of it, and vanished through its windows.
And I know damn well where Bruce is.
He’s brooding.
Again.
He does that, especially on nights like this. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Any day that reminds him how loud the silence is without them.
He doesn’t even realize how far he sinks into it until someone drags him out.
Time: 9:30PM P.O.V.: Third Person
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"You know, Bruce... for the world’s greatest detective, you're surprisingly bad at locking doors when people are still around,” Selina said, her voice smooth as silk.
He hadn’t heard the study door open. And now she was in front of him - just like that.
Typical.
There she stood, framed by the firelight, arms crossed, one brow slightly raised like she had every right to be there. And maybe she did.
The audacity this woman had.
Bruce looked up at her, eyes meeting hers. One hand clutched his half-empty glass of whiskey, the other rested beneath his chin. His jaw was tight, his silence louder than anything in the room.
“Has brooding always been your go-to emotion?” Selina asked, her tone light, but the bite unmistakable. “You’ve slipped away from every party I’ve seen you host. It’s honestly impressive at this point.”
She gave him a faint pout, mockingly disappointed.
“Seems a little rude, don’t you think? Leaving your guests like that.”
“What do you want, Selina?” Bruce’s voice was gravel and exhaustion. He didn’t bother to hide it.
She tilted her head. “Me? Bruce, the only person you should be worrying about right now is yourself. You don’t even let yourself enjoy one night. One. Night. You’re thirty now - and instead of celebrating the fact that you're miraculously still breathing after everything, you’re in here drinking and sulking like it’s a funeral.”
He groaned under his breath and looked away, down at the desk. The photograph was still there. Her words pressed against something he didn’t want to touch.
Selina stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until they were nearly face to face.
“Come on, big boy,” she murmured, softer now. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself every year.”
And still, he sat there - silent, jaw tight, ghosts louder than the fire.
